Waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweat is something Stiles had tried forgetting since his high school days in Beacon Hills. Since his life had been spent running away from or fighting every kind of supernatural antagonist to be borne of this world.

He sighs, throws the covers off him in one fail swoop. They land softly on the floor, invisible in the dark cast room. He shuffles to the bathroom, washes his face in the sink without turning the lights on. Those will wake him for good, and the night is still young. But sleep seems impossible now. Images flash behind his eyelids like fireworks, each one brighter and more vivid than the last. Fantasy mixed with reality, nostalgia and repressed memories coming to the forefront. Stiles rubs his face raw, but the images persist.

There she walks, her hair tousled by the wind, pulling him deeper into the woods. She's laughing, urging him forward, saying, "Stiles, stop freaking out. Just come." He's trying to resist, to protest, but there's no resisting her. She knows it too.
Her grip on his shirt is strong, pulling on the fabric with the force that only she would display, and it thrills him to know that she loses control over him like that. She's hot in his arms, her lips like the licks of fire, burning him with friction and cooling with the swift movements of her tongue.

Stiles gulps, his throat dry and eyes heavy. Feels angry, not at her. Never at her. But he's angry that he has to relive those memories, now almost a decade later.

He's throwing his clothes haphazardly into the suitcase, hangers and all. Resentment and grief burns in his throat, and he's trying not to cry.
"What are you doing?", she says firmly. He doesn't look at her.
"Stiles, stop." There's that strong grip again, holding his wrist away from another stack of shirts.
"I can't," he says.
"Yes you can, Stiles."
"No, Malia. I can't. I'm tired and I can't keep fighting." He speaks through gritted teeth, angry and raw.
"I'm not asking you to fight. I'm asking you to stay."
He looks away, gulps. "I have no one left to stay for."
Her grip loosens and she's gone.

He shuts his eyes with as much force as he can muster.

He's in the office when the day breaks, drinking his third cup of coffee. Somewhere between being 18 and 27, Adderall got replaced with caffeine. And nicotine.

"Morning, Boss." Joe says, slamming the door behind him with surprising force. "Any news from dearest Mrs. Morin?"
Stiles clears his throat, "No, nothing."
"Does she want more proof?" He pushes, "because I can take another HD video of her husband swapping spit in the hospital courtyard."
"She's just dealing with the situation." Stiles says, "You know the drill."
"I just don't know what there is to deal with." Joe says matter-of-factly. "Your husband is a cheating bastard. End of story."
Stiles takes a deep breath. "If it weren't for cheating spouses, we'd all be out of a job."
Joe considers, then nods his head.

The harsh reality is that private investigators rarely get assignments juicier than spousal conflicts and corporate rivalry. Not that Stiles minds. The relative stability of the job in addition to the distinctive lack of danger makes him actually enjoy the process of investigation. After all that happened, a lack of danger is refreshing.

He has to stop bringing up the past though.

"Hey Joe?" Stiles says, bringing himself out of his thoughts. His partner has been slowly falling asleep at the desk, but he springs awake. "I thought we talked about you partying before coming to work?"
"Not to argue, but you look like you hadn't much sleep either last night."
Stiles sighs, taking a sip of his cold coffee, thinking bitterly that he'd rather have been partying than reliving his past.

When evening crawls into existence, Stiles heads out to an assignment. He rarely does those anymore, doing more paperwork than actual work, but today he's feeling like getting his mind off things, and watching another high profile Manhattan socialite cheat on her husband might just be what the doctor prescribed.

"Lock up the office," Stiles tells Joe, who after having gone to get some last minute footage, sulks over a report. He looks up suddenly, surprised.
"You heading out to an assignment?"
"Yeah, feel like getting out."
"Oh yeah?" Joe questions, suddenly interested. "What's the case?"
"Infidelity," Stiles says.

Stiles sits in his Jeep, staring into the ornate doors of La Parisienne, where according to her husband, Elle Richmond-Dennings has made a dinner reservation for two. Except she's late, and not fashionably either. Unless Stiles' skills have deteriorated in the last month and she slipped inside undetected.

"Can you try to enjoy tonight?" she's pleading, waiting for him to get out of her car. He does so automatically, walking towards the restaurant whilst avoiding her worried gaze. It's almost strange how lifeless and grey everything seems. Even Malia, her usual fire barely lit, flickering like a candle in the wind. He reckons that his fire is out completely; if ever it had even existed.
"Happy Birthday," she says, handing him a small box. He smiles at her, opens the lid. Inside glimmers a fake Sherriff's badge. "Stiles" engraved in the middle. The restaurant suddenly grows quiet; a familiar numbness overtakes his body. Tears hit the table, hot and salty.

He takes his eyes off the door to answer a call.
"Stilinski Private Investigation."
"It's Richard Dennings calling. Wanted some details on the case."
"Nothing yet to report, Mr. Dennings. I'm surveying the restaurant as we speak."
"Listen, I've got a divorce hearing early next week. I need to present some backup."
"I can assure you that there will be evidence." Stiles says.
"Sooner than later, I hope."
"I'll give you a call with an update tomorrow morning."
"Thanks. I'll let my secretary know."

The line barely clears when a black Lincoln pulls over. Stiles sets his camera against the window, filming as Mrs. Richmond-Dennings steps out of the car with an air of refined wealth, but instead of a potential beau, another woman follows her out into the restaurant. Stiles sighs, more annoyed than disappointed. The pressure to find proof of infidelity is often too great for clients to listen to reason, especially if large sums of money and inheritance is involved. But Stiles is doing his job, and he might as well see what the fuss is about.

The women leave La Parisienne barely an hour later, all smiles and a polite hug goodbye. The same black Lincoln picks up Mrs. Richmond-Dennings, and her companion watches as the car drives away. Stiles considers following, but something about the other woman intrigues him. Her high society manners contradict the distinct roughness in her features. Hair a shade of fiery red, eyes deep-set and blue. She makes a call, rushed, but not disappointed. Her brows crease as she listens, then hangs up without another word. If Stiles were closer, perhaps he'd hear the conversation, but for now, the video would satisfy his curiosity. She walks down the street from the restaurant and then around the corner, and out of sight.

"Hm," Stiles murmurs. "No adultery, yet."

She sneaks into his room during the night, presses herself against him and he shivers, awakens with a startle.
"Malia?" He says, voice hoarse and sleep-ridden.
"Did you expect someone else?" she whispers, cold hands sliding up his chest.
He kisses her instead of answering, and she trails her hands down his abdomen, farther down until he's quivering with anticipation. Then she stops.
"Stiles?" she murmurs, as though embarrassed.
"What's wrong?"
"Would you ever cheat on me?"
The question surprises him, and he chuckles before pulling her in for another kiss. "Never."

Friday doesn't bring the usual feelings of recovery and escape. The sun is just barely rising above the New York cityscape when he stands on his balcony, barely big enough to fit him in it, smoking a cigarette.

His hands tremble, from the caffeine or nicotine or the dreams he's been having. Visions that have been pursuing him endlessly. Needlessly, too.

He runs a hand through his hair, shivers as the cold breeze whips across his face, skin raw from having rubbed it all night. "I should take a Valium," he thinks before his eyes unfocus again.

He knows something is wrong before he enters the house. The air feels heavier, and the door swings back and forth with pitiful creaks. His throat closes up at the sight of claw marks on the lock.
"He's at work." He repeats with each step down the hall. The house feels cold and dark, even darker still when he enters the bedroom. The metallic smell of blood hits his nose almost immediately. Among the stained sheets lies his dead father. He can almost pretend that he's sleeping if he looks away from his severed head.

All the Valium in the world can't erase the image from his head, so vivid and bright that Stiles hallucinates the claw marks on his own bedroom door. He closes his eyes, willing his brain to recognize the different circumstances, the time difference. "It's been eight years," he whispers. "I'm in NYC, I'm 27 years old. I work as a private investigator in my own company. I'm not possessed by the Nogitsune. I'm physically and mentally capable."

He opens his eyes, sight blurry from tears and strain, palms for his cellphone on the coffee table, calls.
"I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Evans for later today."
"I'm sorry, Dr. Evans is completely booked. Are you a new patient?"
Stiles sighs. "This is important. Stiles Stilinski."
He hears her fingers hitting the keys, hears her levelled breathing and the barely audible "hmmm" that escapes her lips.
"Can you come in at 11?" She asks. "We might be able to squeeze you in."
"Perfect, thanks."
The phone lands on the couch with a quiet thud. He hadn't seen Dr. Evans in years, foolishly thought he was getting better. A relapse was certain, even if not planned.

He doesn't play music in the Jeep as he drives to the office. The traffic is bad enough even this early in the morning, and it gives him too much time to think. To relish the anger brewing deep in his belly, anger at Beacon Hills, and at Scott. If it hadn't been for him, his father would have been alive. They've sacrificed so much; he sacrificed all that he had.

The lights flicker on in the tiny office, and the sound of the coffee machine brewing a fresh batch calms Stiles enough to momentarily forget his torturous visions. His hands shake as he sips the hot liquid, scorching his mouth and oesophagus enough to blister. When an old receipt on the floor distracts him, he nearly walks into a filing cabinet. He picks up the receipt to throw it out. Oct 26 1 is scribbled on the back.

When Joe finally arrives at the office, Stiles had already hallucinated twice and drank nearly three cups of coffee, black.
"Listen, " Joe says. His voice sounds dull, as though coming from a lot farther away. "I've got my sister's wedding to go to on Thursday."
Thursday is the 25th. It was Joe's note. "When will you be back?" Stiles asks.
"The Monday, probably."
He nods. "Didn't know you had a sister."
Joe frowns. "We're not really on good terms." His facial expression is strangely sour as he asks Stiles if everything's okay.
"Just under the weather," Stiles replies, feigning normality. "Gotta pick up something for the headache."
"Probably low blood pressure," Joe suggests.

Stiles' legs hum with pain as he drives to Dr. Evans. The receptionist greets him warmly into the overwhelmingly beige office.
"Stiles," Dr. Evans says, looking up from the patient file he's been reading. "What's it been?" he says softly, "Five years?"
Stiles sits down on the sofa, hands clutched in front of him. "Something like that."
"Tell me," Dr. Evans urges him on.
"I've been having nightmares," Stiles says. "Different than back then."
"How so?"
"They happen when I'm awake too,"
"Daydreams?"
"No, they're like visions. Sometimes I hallucinate." He says. "I feel…weak and-"
Dr. Evans' observes him, eyes travelling from his sweaty forehead to the trembling hands. His mouth is a tight line.
"Stiles, are you self-medicating?"
"No," He says, too quickly.
"Valium?" He asks. "Stiles, you know where this is going."
"Look," Stiles says, sighing. "I don't need a lecture. I just need a prescription or something to get rid of the nightmares."
Dr. Evans rubs the bridge of this nose in exasperation.
"I can't sleep," Stiles says. "And I can't function."
"I can't give you a prescription," Dr. Evan's says finally. "You're relapsing. And a pill isn't going to make it better."
Stiles runs a hand through his hair. "Then what will?" He already knows the answer.
"Therapy," the doctor responds. "Vigorous therapy."
"I can't-"
"Stiles, you have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's a lifelong illness that can only be combatted by constant effort to get better."
"I was better," Stiles says. "I was fine for five years."
"Lifelong, Stiles."
He doesn't want to lose control, but he's close. "I want a normal life." He says through gritted teeth.
"Your past won't allow it if you don't think of the future."
"I am," Stiles argues. "I want a future where I'm not haunted by the past and all the unanswered questions."
"Perhaps you need to revisit it, then."
"I'm not doing hypnosis," Stiles says flatly.
"Visit Beacon Hills," Dr. Evans says. "Have your questions answered, or at least try to."
"How's that going to help my nightmares?"
"It might not, but it's a start."
Stiles gets up, his head a spinning mess of thoughts.
"I hope to see you back sooner than in five years." The doctor says as Stiles walks out. "And don't self-medicate."
As he walks through the glass doors of the building, his eyes bloodshot and dry, another vision floods his senses.

They're sitting on the hood of his Jeep, drinking beer he had stolen from the fridge – his father's.
"I can't believe we're graduating," Scott says, looking up at the sky. "So many things happened, but it feels like nothing changed at all."

A/N: Hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I've been developing this story for quite some time, and am really excited to start sharing it with you all. Don't forget to review :)